Skin
by Firestar9mm
Summary: A sequel to "Gloves"...still nervous!...feedback please!


Skin  
Sort of a sequel to "Gloves"...  
  
The Negotiator strode purposefully through the foyer, brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes swept the room, back and forth, taking in its usual military neatness. The piano was mercifully silent.  
  
"I say, sir, is something the matter? You have that tension between your eyebrows that means you are trying not to frown." The butler did not look at Roger as he said this, but being a seasoned observer of the negotiator, there was no need.  
  
"Norman, have you seen my leather gloves? I seem to have misplaced them."  
  
"I am sorry, Master Roger. I know nothing of them. May I be so clichéd as to ask where you last saw them?"  
  
Roger looked at his hands. He'd last seen the gloves the other night, when he'd come in late and found Dorothy asleep at the piano. He'd taken them off then, to allow himself one brief caress of her, and she'd awakened.  
  
Strangely, he didn't remember much after that.  
  
"Now you are frowning, sir."  
  
He was. "Have you seen Dorothy around?"  
  
"Miss Dorothy is running errands for me, sir. I shall ask after your gloves upon her return." The butler finally turned to see the wry smirk that flowed across the negotiator's face.  
  
"No need, Norman. When she returns, I'll ask her myself." His stride was once again purposeful as he left the room.  
  
*******  
  
Dorothy picked up a feather duster and closed one hand around the feathers. The sensation was a dulled tickle.  
  
She knew that she should be feeling the tickle against her synthetic skin, but the barrier between that skin and the feathers dulled it to a ghost of sensation. She knew that she was touching something, but had she been blind she would not have been able to identify it.  
  
Was that what a memory felt like?  
  
She remembered being down in the subway, cradling Roger's head in her lap. She had been confused at the time because her hands had wanted to stroke his hair, and she had felt that perhaps she should tell him everything was all right or some other human nonsense like that. He had been dazed, disoriented, and had addressed her as "Mama".   
  
Mama...as in his mother? She had not understood.   
  
But...could that be what memory was like to Roger? Something just out of reach, hazy, unclear like that? Something he knew he knew but could not fully identify?  
  
As always, she saw, but she did not understand.  
  
After stroking the feathers once more, she took the duster with her. She needed a new feather duster anyway. She had used the old one to play a game with little Perot, and as a result it was now lying forlornly at the bottom of the closet like a dying, balding bird.  
  
*******  
  
East Town was not Roger's favorite place. He squinted in the artificial sunlight, reaching into his pocket for his sunglasses.  
  
Looking around, one would think this place was a paradise. Sunlight burned bright over the citizens. Trees whispered to each other in the breeze and one would think, what nice thoughts they must have. As if the trees were real, could think.  
  
What did he care? If people wanted to fool themselves, let them. It was none of his business.  
  
Did it make a difference to them to see the trees, the flowers? Did it brighten the cozy residences of the millionaires? Did it make them that much happier to feel the sunlight, maybe forget that it wasn't real?  
  
He shook his head. Artificial things couldn't make a person feel. Things that were not real could not evoke real responses from a person. Your paradise is not for me, the negotiator thought, leaning back against the gate of the house he had just left to rest a minute.  
  
He drew back with a small gasp, jolted from his thoughts by a pain as hot and bright as the artificial sun that glittered above.  
  
As if to mock him, a rose waved in the slight breeze, its thorns grinning at him like a crouching tiger.  
  
All at once, he felt the ersatz sunlight on his naked hands and held one up to it, frowning absently at the drop of blood.  
  
*******  
  
Her errands complete, Dorothy was making her way home, finding it very difficult to hold on to her shopping bags with the gloves on. The leather slipped and slid, and she was finding it an increasingly frustrating chore to keep her grip on the bags.  
  
Her pretty porcelain features contorted into a bit of a frown. These gloves were no good. They dulled all feeling; all pleasure one could receive from touch. And on top of that, they made it so difficult to hold on to things. Did gloves always make one feel so alone, so distant? Was that what Roger Smith wanted, never to feel, always to be alone?  
  
She wished now, as she often wished, that her little Perot were still with her, so that she could feel his fur through the leather gloves, and then take them off and cuddle him and relish his softness.  
  
She stopped walking, the thought hitting her. Perhaps there were good things about gloves. If she were holding her little Perot now and could not feel his soft fur, it would make the experience that much more pleasurable when she took the gloves off. Would the kitten feel even softer?  
  
The lights of a ladies' shop caught her eye, and she decided to take her experiment a little further.  
  
*******  
  
Damn roses. Damn thorns.  
  
The negotiator swore softly under his breath as he drove. His pricked finger was throbbing like a toothache, slow, steady. Whenever he put the turn signal on, it applied pressure to the little wound in such a way that it cried not to be disturbed.  
  
While waiting at a red light, he realized his teeth did ache. He'd been grinding them the whole trip.  
  
He couldn't really get a fix on what was making him angry. Part of the anger was for East Town, and the way it encouraged people to live in a fantasy world. Part of it was for the rose, and its thorns, and the little pain that was somehow eclipsing him. Of course, he wouldn't have even felt the thorns if he'd had his leather gloves, and that made him angry as well.  
  
Dorothy wouldn't have taken the gloves, would she? Why would she want them? She'd made it very clear the other day that she disliked them and thought they were a complete waste of time.   
  
Where could they be?  
  
*******  
  
It was a slow day in the ladies' shop, and the two women who worked there were finding a very strange source of entertainment in the young lady who'd walked in. They didn't think her blind, but it was so odd, wasn't it, the way she touched the garments, rubbing the fabric between her gloved fingers?  
  
Satins, silks and velvets, they all felt the same beneath the leather. Was that the way things felt, all the same? Another bad point for the gloves, forcing one to rely only on texture to discern velvet from silk.  
  
Moving through the racks, Dorothy found what she was looking for--a full-length faux fur coat, displayed proudly on a headless mannequin with a sign at its feat bearing a number that would have made even Roger hesitate.  
  
She touched both hands to the coat, stroking down. It was not the same as holding Perot, but it was close, and again she hated the barrier between the softness and her hands.  
  
A presence at her side made her turn; a salesgirl was timidly trying to get her attention.  
  
"Excuse me, Miss, but if you like the feel of coat so much, don't you think you should take your gloves off?"  
  
*******  
  
"No, sir, she has not yet returned," Norman reported, winding the clock in the hall.  
  
"Did you find my gloves?" Roger asked.  
  
"No, sir, I did not. Supper shall be ready shortly." The butler retreated to the kitchen.  
  
The elevator announced the return of Dorothy, who was having an extremely difficult time keeping hold of her shopping bags.  
  
"This makes me cross," she burst out, finally dropping them in the hallway.  
  
The butler chuckled, returning. "Let me get those for you, Miss Dorothy. You were out later than expected. I was beginning to worry!" He smiled at the girl, not hiding his fondness for her.  
  
"You needn't have. I was fine." Dorothy removed the new feather duster from one of the bags.  
  
Roger cast a cool glance at Norman, wondering just why the butler fancied the android so much, then proceeded to the question that had been nagging him all day.  
  
"Dorothy, have you seen my--"  
  
She interrupted. "You are hurt."  
  
"What?" He looked at his hand. "Oh, this? It's nothing."  
  
"It is bleeding. You should wrap it." She took his hand in both her own, examining the little wound. She'd never shown this much concern for his welfare; he was a little thrown.  
  
"It's all right, Dorothy. Nothing artificial can evoke a response in me. It's--" The negotiator's eyes went wide, his skin registering the feeling of leather caressing his hand, the tiny wound. "You did take them!"  
  
Norman smiled as he took in the scene. "Oh, you've found Master Roger's gloves. Where were they?"  
  
Dorothy looked at her hands. "Oh. These?" She eyes him coolly, then added, "They match my dress."  
  
Norman recalled that battle, as did Roger. "Is Miss Dorothy unwell, Master Roger?" the butler asked in a stage whisper. "She is making a joke!"  
  
"And one that isn't funny." Roger glared at the android.  
  
"I was conducting a little experiment. I did not think you would mind." She took the gloves off, and he watched her small hands move with the action, her pale skin shining in the light from the windows. Late afternoon was shading into evening.  
  
Roger scowled. "Well, I do. First of all, you shouldn't take things without asking. And second of all--"  
  
She interrupted again. "Why so angry, Roger? You just said that nothing artificial could evoke a response in you."  
  
What? Who was this android and what had she done with the real Dorothy? "It can't."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "You always remind me that I am not real. Shall I remind you?"  
  
Roger opened his mouth to retort, but stopped. He was a negotiator, and he knew when he had been beaten. She was right.  
  
"Give me those," he snarled, snatching the gloves from her hand and stalking out of the room.  
  
The android and the butler watched him go, silently.  
  
"May I ask, how went your experiment, Miss Dorothy?" Norman asked, a twinkle in his one visible eye.  
  
The android did not change expression, but for once the smile was audible in her voice. "Better than I could have hoped for."  
  
*******  
  
This story turned out better than I could have hoped for, too. I hope everyone likes it. I plead for constructive feedback.  
  
So the sequel is done and the third and final part is in the works. I'm all shivery and nervous! Should I even try for a third part? Or is it terrible? Should I quit? Please review so I'll know where to go with this.  
  
Thanks!  
  
Serena  



End file.
